


Baby you're a work of art

by queenofchildren



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, F/M, Fluffy Smut, Friends to Lovers, Pining, also bellamy is not handling things well just in general, one of these tags is not like the others, silicone dildo-making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10596528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: When your best friend (who you're maybe just a little bit in love with) asks you to model for her silicone dildo art project, there's only one sensible thing to do: Say no.So of course Bellamy doesn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a tumblr prompt I got from hedaoftheskaikru: "this sculpting class is the bane of my existence and for the final project (where i’m supposed to use a non-clay medium) i’m going to troll my teacher and make a bunch of silicone dildos. will you donate your dick to my cause?"

”You need _what_?“

Bellamy can't believe what he's hearing. To be honest, he's not entirely sure he isn't hallucinating this entire conversation, tired as he is. The last few weeks have been brutal, and he's barely managed to make the deadline for a paper that could make or break his career. So when he comes home after finally sending it off and then having to teach three courses and reassure a bunch of panicking freshmen that they'll get an extension on their own work, it seems perfectly plausible that he is in fact imagining it when he opens the door to find his best friend standing outside and exclaiming:

“I need your dick.”

It doesn't sound any less crazy the second time, and Bellamy closes his eyes and pinches his arm, hard. But when he opens them again, Clarke is still standing outside his door, wearing tight jeans and a light grey, v-necked shirt and looking at him pleadingly. Not a hallucination then, even if the combination of _that_ expression and that _request_ – more like a demand, really, because Clarke is bossy as hell – seems to come straight out of one of the more vivid dreams he's been having recently.

The thought must be showing on his face, because Clarke gasps and goes beet red.

“Not like that!” She pushes past him, smelling like the perfume he and Octavia chipped in together to buy her for her last birthday, and Bellamy takes a deep breath and then immediately feels pathetic.

“Well, what _else_ would you need it for?” He snaps, a little defensive now because it's hard to keep his cool around Clarke when he's at his best, but dealing with her when he's exhausted and she's making nonsensical demands is damn near impossible.

“My sculpting class,” Clarke huffs, as if that would be sufficient explanation, then spots what he's sure is a less than intelligent look on his face and keeps going. “We're supposed to do a piece in a non-clay medium for our final project, and I want to piss my professor off.”

“The smug sexist one?” Bellamy asks, because even when his head feels like it's filled with cotton balls, he apparently still remembers all the times Clarke ranted about the professor teaching her “Introduction to Sculpture”-class.

“Exactly. You know how he's always showing us his "phallic art pieces" that are just plaster casts of his dick and making everyone uncomfortable?”

Bellamy nods. That habit in particular is one Clarke has been fuming about all semester.

“Well, I figured I'd give him a taste of his own medicine and make him look at someone _else's_ dick for a change. Or perhaps a whole bunch of dicks. A bag of dicks, so to speak.” She giggles a little at her own joke, then grins deviously. “So obviously, it's got to be a _better_ dick than the one he keeps shoving in our faces.”

He tries to ignore the “better dick” thing in favour of focusing on the logistics of what, exactly, she's planning.

“And when you say “look at”, you mean...?” Bellamy has trouble understanding her professors' outlandish assignments most of the time, and this one is no exception.

“I mean I'm making a mold to produce a bunch of silicone dicks. Plaster casts are _so_ 1970s anyway.” She scrunches her nose as she says it, as if everyone should share her opinion on plaster cast penises when he, personally, didn't even know they were a thing, let alone one that existed way back in the seventies.

“So,” Clarke says with the finality of someone coming full circle, “I need your dick to make the mold.”

And Bellamy still isn't entirely sure he understands, but he shakes his head just to be on the safe side.

“I don't know...”

“Come onnn,“ Clarke whines, then probably realizes that acting like a petulant child won't help her because whenever she does, he just reverts to stern professor mode. She changes tactics instead. “I don't have that many penis-having friends. And yours is a _really_ good one.“

The fact that he doesn't let this obviously manipulative compliment sway him is definitely a testament to his superhuman will.

“How would you even know that?”

“We went skinny-dipping last summer, remember?”

Oh, he remembers. Because he was already half in love, or at the very least in lust, with Clarke, and trying not to stare at her when she shimmied out of her sundress and took off her bra was the hardest thing he's ever had to do.

Still!

“You _looked_? I thought we agreed not to look!”

“I may have peeked. Once. A tiny little bit. And don't act like dudes don't _love_ shoving their dicks in everyone's faces and waiting for them to be impressed. At least in your case, someone actually _was_.”

And now the blatant flattery does get to him after all, and suddenly, the fact that she not only snuck a look at his dick but actually managed to form a favourable opinion of it becomes the only thing about this conversation that matters. As if to prove her point about men and their obsessions, he can feel himself stirring already just from her casual praise, from wondering if she thought about him the way he thought about her after that night, if it just occurred to her now that she was apparently _impressed_ by his penis (he still can't believe this is an actual thing that came out of Clarke's mouth), or if she's been thinking about it since then, lying awake at night and touching herself to the memory like he has....

“And it won't be difficult, or dangerous, if that's what you're scared of. I'll be there the whole time, and I can even help you,” she falters, briefly but long enough for him to notice, “ _get ready_ , if necessary...”

It takes him a moment to understand what she means, then it's his turn to blush furiously.

“Absolutely not! If I'm doing this, your hands won't be anywhere _near_ my dick, understood?”

Now Clarke actually looks a little hurt. But as much as he wants to help her teach a lesson to her sexist professor, he can't have her directly involved. Not after the things he's been imagining about her lately, or the little moments that actually happen between them, hugs and playful touches and soft kisses she presses to his cheek when she wants to cheer him up – much less sexual than his fantasies, but so much more powerful.

He can't have her actually touching him like _that_ if it doesn't mean anything.

“We'll need to maintain some boundaries. Otherwise it will be too weird. Just tell me what to do, and I'll manage.”

He thinks.

And then suddenly, he doesn't think at all anymore because Clarke is hanging off his neck and squeezing him tightly, her soft breasts squished between them and her hair in his face, and Bellamy closes his arms around her on instinct and buries his nose in her hair and allows himself to breathe her in, just for a moment. Then she's already drawing back, still a little flushed but beaming at him brightly, and his heart aches with how much he loves seeing her like this.

“You're the best.”

“In a lot of ways, apparently,” Bellamy grumbles good-naturedly, still not entirely convinced he won't wake up any minute and thinking that maybe if he did, it would be for the best. It's only sinking in now what he just agreed to, but already Bellamy can feel himself panicking at the thought that he may have just made a very grave mistake. If he wants to make it through this with his dignity and their friendship intact, he has to instal some kind of safety net.

“But I have conditions,” he blurts out, and Clarke looks at him questioningly, wide-eyed but still full of trust that he'll keep his word, and this too is something he can never get enough of. “One, you can't tell anyone who modelled for your project,” Clarke nods eagerly and he continues, “and two: no touching. You can do whatever you want with the mold, but I'm the only one handling the original.”

Clarke nods again, but it's a little more hesitant this time, and there's an odd look on her face that he can't interpret.

“Whatever you want.”

***  
  


Three days later, Bellamy is standing in his bathroom with his pants around his ankles, staring at a long plastic tube filled with green jelly and dealing with a problem that, frankly, he hasn't had to deal with before: He can't get it up.

Which is sort of instrumental here.

But he's tried for several minutes now, and no matter what he does, no matter what he thinks of, the response remains underwhelming. Perhaps his bathroom isn't the most conducive place to his undertaking, glaringly bright with Saturday morning sun. Perhaps there's the knowledge that the entire escapade will only end with his dick buried in cold, gooey molding gel and not... somewhere else. Or perhaps it's the fact that he can hear Clarke pacing up and down the hallway on the other side of the door, anxiously waiting for his results, and it couldn't be further from any of his fantasies that feature her equally impatient. (Which he is fully aware is pathetic, thank you very much.)

Ironically, those fantasies would be guaranteed to solve his current dilemma – but they're also kind of the reason he's in this mess in the first place: Because he can never say no to Clarke, no matter how ridiculous the idea. Because he's head-over-heels in love with her and has no idea how she feels about him. And because that very fact makes him feel guilty just _considering_ using her as wank material.

And just when he's done contemplating this problem for about the fifth time, Clarke's voice rings out from the other side of the door.

"Bellamy? Are you alright?"

"Yes, I am. Just give me a second, okay?"

Of course, she does no such thing.

"Is there a problem with the molding jelly?" Her clearly audible concern is not helping.

"Not with that, no," he replies through gritted teeth, and her soft "Oh" tells him she finally understood.

There's a moment of silence before she speaks again, softer this time.

"Are you sure you don't want me to help? I don't mind..."

"No!" He yelps, but even as he protests, his cock hardens a little at the image that pops into his head, of her making good on her offer and sinking to her knees before him...

"Fine! For fuck's sake, if I'm that repulsive, I'll just get my laptop so you can watch some porn."

This time, he's sure he didn't imagine it: She sounds hurt, as if by rejecting the idea, he was rejecting her too.

And with that realisation comes the thought that maybe he's been operating under flawed assumptions about the state of their relationship - and that perhaps, his dick and the stupid mold are the last things he should be worrying about right now.

With an irritated growl, he wipes off the excess oil he (rather uselessly) covered his hands in, yanks up his boxers and pants and pulls open the door to find Clarke right before him.

"I don't find you repulsive," he snarls, and she draws back a little. "That's not the problem here _at all_. In fact that's the _opposite_ of my problem right now."

Her mouth falls open in surprise, a small, pink “o” that lends itself perfectly to the kinds of thoughts swirling through his head - and that turns out to be the thing that finally pushes him over the edge and makes everything he's been keeping so carefully bottled up come rushing out.

“Trust me, nothing would get me going faster than your hands on me. In fact, I've been dreaming about it for months and feeling like a complete asshole because you're my _friend_ , and this whole _situation_ here,” he gestures frantically, at her and him and the open bathroom behind him and the shoerack behind her, as if they were in any way responsible for this mess, “is _not_ helping.”

Clarke's eyes are impossibly wide now, and bluer than they've ever been.

“You've been thinking about me?”

He can't even meet her eyes anymore. What kind of person lusts after his friend and then _yells_ at them about it? For fuck's sake, it's not _her_ fault he apparently can't control his thoughts around her.

But suddenly, there's a hand on his chin, softly but irresistibly turning his head so he's looking at her again.

“Bellamy?”

And her eyes, he realises now, aren't just wide with surprise: there's something else there too, something boundless and breathtaking – hope.

“You've been thinking about me?” she asks again, and this time, he nods.

“A lot. And I'm....” _'sorry'_ , he wants to say, but never gets around to it.

Because Clarke flings herself at him and he just manages to close his arms around her and steady them both before they smash into the wall. Then she's kissing him, hard and soft, demanding and coaxing all at the same time, and again he would be concerned about hallucinating if she didn't feel so damn _real_ against him. But her lips really are pressed softly against his, her hands sliding up from his shoulders into his hair to make him shiver in delight, her skin warm underneath the thin cotton of her dress.

And when she draws back to look at him, she's smiling brighter than he's ever seen before, and that's real too, and all for him.

“I may have been thinking about you too.”

“You have?” He croaks out, voice breaking, because, well, he knows he's attractive to plenty of women but he somehow never imagined that Clarke would be one of them. “Huh,” is his not very intelligent summary of the situation, and Clarke laughs.

“You're such a _dork_ ,” Clarke says fondly, in the same teasing tone she must have used with him a million times before, and he likes how many things between them are still familiar even if there are suddenly other things that are _definitely_ new.

“Says the woman who seduced me under the pretext of silicone-penis-making.”

Clarke sticks out her tongue at him.

“They're real usable dildos, actually. I just didn't want to call it that when I asked because I thought that would make you even less likely to agree.”

She has a point, he has to admit. But he's not letting her know that, not when she's running her hands down to his still unbuttoned jeans and palming him through his boxers, grinning smugly when she discovers that his earlier problem is very much not a problem anymore.

“Incidentally, that's also why I almost died when you said I could do what I wanted with the mold... Since we're sharing fantasies.”

It takes him a moment to understand what she means, and just when he does, he feels her hand slip down his boxers to close around him, and his eyes nearly bug out of his head.

“You were going to... keep one?”

She shrugs, innocently, but the way she's licking her lips is anything but.

“I was thinking about it. Since I wasn't going to be allowed to _handle the original_...”

Her smile is more self-congratulatory than ever, and he pulls her close by the back of her neck to kiss her, ostensibly to shut her up but really just because he _can,_ apparently. (And also because the idea of her keeping a lifelike model of his dick to fuck herself with is making his head spin and this whole situation is once again feeling like a hallucination and he needs to make sure that it's not.)

She draws back with a laugh, but it's breathless and shaky and her eyes are blown wide and he can't wait to turn the tables on her later. But Clarke is already slipping out of his grasp to push him back inside the bathroom and sink to her knees before him, and then her lips close around him hotly and Bellamy grips the sink behind him so hard there's a chance he'll rip it out of the wall.

It can't take more than a few seconds for him to go from almost-there to painfully hard, no more effort necessary than a few teasing licks and hollow-cheeked sucks. When he opens his eyes to look down and sees her blonde head bobbing above him, eyes closed in bliss or concentration or both, Bellamy has to bury his hand in that glorious golden hair and gently put a stop to her enthusiastic movements.

“If you ever want to make that damn mold you've got to stop and do it now!”

She nods, a little dazed, and _fuck_ if that's not the hottest thing he's ever seen: Clarke Griffin, flushed and tousled and, judging by the way she rubs her legs together, _turned on_ from sucking him off.

He takes her arm to help her to her feet again, stealing a quick kiss before she turns to pick up the mold where it sits, forgotten, on top of the washing-machine.

She laughs again, the perfect sound to match his current mood, and gently pushes him away.

“Just let me get this done so we can continue, will you?”

Well, he very much does want to continue. So he doesn't distract Clarke any further when she slides the tube with its jelly filling over his shaft, tries not to wince even though the substance feels cold and strange, and waits for her to count to ten (silently, but he watches as her lips move along, more entranced by the sight than by any movie).

She gently slips the tube off again and sets it aside, then wipes any excess jelly off with a warm washcloth, and as soon as she's done, Bellamy picks her up and deposits her on the washing-machine before kissing her feverishly.

“Good, that's done,” he murmurs into her skin and Clarke laughs again at his impatience but the sound ends in a breathy moan when he lets his lips ghost along her jaw to her neck to suck hotly on her pulse.

Standing between her legs, Bellamy slides his hands up her thighs, pushing up her dress in the process, and watches her shiver in response.

“You got your taste. It's my turn now.”

Clarke doesn't protest – and she doesn't leave his apartment for the rest of the weekend either.

***  
  


Two weeks later, they're in their favourite bar, where all their friends are gathered around their usual table and hanging off of Clarke's lips as she tells the story of the silicone dick installation – already a legend, it seems.

“I called it 'The Twelve Apostles' and hinted heavily that there's something different about Judas. Which means he now has to look at them very, _very_ carefully to figure out how I used a dick to make a statement about Judas,” Clarke finishes the story of how she handed in her final assignment, and everyone bursts into laughter, Bellamy included even if he gets distracted halfway through by Clarke's pleased grin and the little flush on her cheeks.

When the riotous laughter slowly dies down, Maya wipes her eyes and asks:

“Where the hell did you even get the mold for the penises?”

Bellamy's heart seems to stop – is this the moment all his friends will find out he dick-modelled for Clarke? Miller will never let him live it down.

But Clarke only shrugs. “I asked some guy on craigslist.”

“Craigslist?” Monty sounds worried. “Please tell me you didn't go home with him to do the cast.”

“No, I made him do it right on campus. Of course I went home with him, Monty, there was a penis involved.”

Monty looks exasperatedly at her, then at Bellamy.

“That's insanely unsafe. Back me up here, Bellamy – you're the one who's always lecturing us about being careful!”

But Bellamy is a little preoccupied, because Raven is still studying the photo of Clarke's installation with a little frown on her face, and he's sweating profusely at the thought that, any moment now, she could recognise him (even though that's ridiculous because they only had sex once, and that was years ago).

He barely manages to chastise Clarke, somewhat lamely, about not going home with strangers. But Clarke, apparently determined for him not to survive this evening, shrugs once more, looks him dead in the eye, and says:

“It all worked out great though – I got my model for the installation, and I got to suck the most beautiful dick I've ever seen.”

Bellamy nearly chokes on the sip of beer he unwisely took just before she spoke, and for a moment he thinks the last thing he'll ever hear is Jasper and Raven hollering in unison and his little sister calling for a high-five and congratulating Clarke on “finally getting some action again”.

But when he excuses himself by claiming an early class the next day, Clarke innocently proclaims that she too has to get up early and follows him out of the bar, waiting only until they're out of sight of the window before she burrows into his side and he can put an arm around her shoulder to pull her close.

And really, Bellamy thinks as she smiles up at him and they start the short walk to his apartment, Clarke can give him as many heart attacks as she wants with her antics, as long as he gets that smile afterwards.

 

 

 


End file.
